What Goes On
by portmanroxsmysoxs
Summary: The thoughts of Hermione, about her life and love and the ridiculous man sleeping next to her, who never fixed the curtains with the holes in them. HrR, read and review!


**Disclaimer:** HP belongs to JK Rowling, not meeeeeee

**A/N:** Another one-shot. Ron/Hermione, duhhh. It's really all I can write.

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It's some time around one, I figure. I don't actually know, since you broke the clock last week – now it doesn't even chime. I haven't bothered to fix it, seeing as how I hated it. I was glad you broke it, a little, at least. I know your mom gave it to you, but was just ugly. I'm sorry. 

I stare at the small part of wall above the windows on the other side of our small bedroom. It's where the clock used to be, before you punched the wall and it fell and shattered on the hardwood floors. I could usually see the hands moving around the little numbers because of the moonlight that shines through the holes and thin patches in our old curtains. I always promise to sew them up and never get to it. I almost feel bad that I never do it, but then again, you always promise to patch the holes the mice used to make in the walls.

I like the way the light shines. You're never bothered by it, thank goodness. It's because you're usually asleep by the time the moon comes out anyway. It creates little circles on the walls, making their horrible pumpkin-orange color less noticeable. The little beams shine on the floor, and on the nightstand, and even on our small bedspread. It lights up the quilt I made last year, after taking up knitting again. Sometimes, if I'm lucky enough, the light shines in little spots on your face, like giant freckles.

I tangle my fingers in your shaggy hair. I've always hated the way you wear it, and I don't mind telling you that. You always laugh, and the ginger falls back into your face. You're twenty-something now, get a haircut. But, I like the way it feels between my fingers when you've bothered to wash it.

You sigh, and it makes me jump a little. Even after a year or two in the same house, sharing the same bed, having to put up with you day after day, you still make me nervous just a little. Every time you slump into the kitchen for Sunday breakfast and kiss me when I'm doing a million different things at once, it still makes my stomach flip and I loose all train of thought and burn your eggs. Even when you just crawl into bed beside me when I'm reading and fall asleep on my shoulder, trying to read the book alongside me, it makes me wiggly and wired.

I sort of want to wake you up and kiss you goodnight. I hate nights when I have to work late – even if it is downstairs in the den. You're so set in your ways – wake up at seven, work at eight, dinner at six – you can't even stay awake to see me to bed. I understand, or I try to, because you've got a stressful job and impatient coworkers and all that other stuff I put up with but never complain about because I'm too busy listening to you.

You sigh again, and I feel your warm breath against my bare stomach. I'm sitting with my back against the broken headboard you bought for the bed when we first moved in. It's hot inside the room, even with the windows open and the ceiling fan on full blast. Your steady breath against my skin makes me shiver and shove the quilt to the end of the bed. All I'm left with is my bra and panties, while you like to sleep naked.

Sometimes I think I'll never get used to seeing you like this – all stretched out and drooling on your pillow, not really caring what I see and what I don't. I never really can grasp why you have no shame, especially when it's just us two. At least I manage some dignity, even if you aren't awake to see. I glance at your back and smile when I see all the tiny freckles that completely cover it. They make you look ridiculous, and that's partly the only reason I let you sleep next to me at all.

It's really time for me to sleep. This is the fourth night in a row that I've had to lock myself up downstairs to pour over pages of my manuscript that still need to be edited and drown myself in paperwork to publishers. I haven't told you yet, but I've already got two offers to produce. I'm waiting for more to come in, so I can have the best choice. I guess I'm waiting until I actually get the hardcopy before I show you my work. You get mad at me sometimes, saying that I'm always working, but never producing. Just you wait.

I untangle my small fingers from your hair and use it to pull back my own. Sometimes when we sit on the couch, you take my hand and curl the tips of your fingers over mine, just to show me how short I am. You may be six foot gazillion and have to duck to get through the doors in our house, but not everyone is. I'm only five feet tall and still need a chair to reach the top cupboards. Again, that's partly why I keep you around – to reach things I can't.

My hair curls as I brush my fingers through it. It's always frizzy when I wake up, but you always say that's how you like it best. I pull it back into a messy ponytail and slide down onto the mattress. My back hurts as it relaxes and then I'm able to comfortably shift to look at you, pressing my face into my cool pillow. Your face is so long, and your jaw is stuck out even when you sleep. I never tell you this – and really never plan to – but I love watching you. I like watching you read the newspaper and watch quidditch and try to make dinner and burn the food within in inch of edibility and sleep and talk and laugh.

I'm so glad I married you. At first, I thought we were too young. I almost turned you down when you were on one knee. But it was graduation day and everyone was bursting and yelling and laughing and I just got caught up. We got married eight months later and moved to our little dumpy flat and we've been here ever since. I've tried to get you to fix it up – put glass back in some of the windows, patch the walls, anything, but we haven't gotten anywhere yet.

It's really time for me to go to bed. You breathe in and out rhythmically and your broad chest moves up and down and I can feel it. I feel so at peace and ready for sleep. But I can't wait to wake up tomorrow and see you stepping out of the bath to go downstairs to try and find the laundry you never washed.

The moonlight is still on your face, and on the floor, and on the walls. It catches on the little shard of glass I forgot to sweep up, but I don't notice now. I'm content to be asleep next to you.

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Welllll, I hoped you liked it! It's just what I pictured from Ron and Hermione. It took me like a frillion years to finally post another story.. .sorry about not updating any of my others. I promise I will sometime! But it's summer! Time to sleep! 

Comments earn cookies! Please! Comment! Look at all these exclamations! Comment!

Okay, well, love, Katie.


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